WordSisters

Category: Mothers

  • An Onion In My Sock!

    An Onion In My Sock!

    white_onionYou know that bad cold that is going around? That one that doesn’t go away? Yeah, I was in the throes of it when I was told by an employee that if I put an onion in each room of my house, it would suck the toxins right up. The person swore that they hadn’t been sick for years. Every six months or so they throw the old onion away and put a new onion in its place.
    As soon as she left my office, I Googled, Can onions cure a cold?

    After work I went directly to the grocery store and bought a bag of large white onions.

    Antonio and Crystel were skeptical. They asked me what I was doing as I was carrying a bowl with an onion into their bedrooms. I said, “Oh you’ll forget it’s even here.” Antonio hasn’t. He swears he now sees little flies around the house because of the onions.

    onion-remediesI need to Google, How to convince a 12-year old boy to believe an Old Wives’ Tale.
    I wanted to do this onion business right. I worried that the bowl might be too small for the large white onion. Maybe the onion needed to have space between its outer skin and the bowl to work. And, should I take the sticker off? Would that hurt its effectiveness?

    My constant deep cough almost drove me to the next step – cutting the onion into slices at bedtime and placing the slices into the heel of my socks.

    I didn’t go that far. I was afraid the smell and not my cold would keep me up all night. Jody had already moved to another bedroom.

    cartoon_illustrations_of_wellknown_old_wives_tales_640_35While waiting for the onion to work, I looked up other Old Wives’ Tales.

    Don’t swallow gum or it will stay in your stomach for seven years. I swallow gum, always have. I don’t know if it has remained in my stomach. Jody can get back to you on that one, if she has an autopsy done after my demise.

    Don’t make silly faces or it will make the silly face permanent. My mother used to tell me not to snarl, because it would be permanent. It was permanent all through my teen years.

    Shaving makes the hair grow back thicker. I don’t know about this one. I shave once in the spring for my spring cut, mid-summer for my summer cut and that’s about it.

    Nosebleeds are a sign of sexual arousal. I got a nosebleed at Tae Kwon Do. I was punched right in the nose by a guy.

    Knuckle cracking causes arthritis. I’m cracking my knuckles just thinking about this. So far, so good.

    The-Magic-OnionIt’s been two weeks. I still have an onion in every room of my house and one in my office. I have a slight cough. I haven’t seen any flies.

    The onions will have to go at some point. But, I just hate to toss them. What if it’s true and that’s why I’m a little bit better?

  • In Praise of Middle-aged Sons

    On Sundays, they escort their mothers to church and take them out to lunch afterward.

    They pick up bread, milk, and the exact brand and size of mayonnaise their Mom wants and let her give them a coupon and the exact change.

    Although they could finish a repair project more quickly without their father’s help, they try hard to smile when Dad supervises the work.

    They sift through piles of Medicare statements and become wise in the ways of copays and explanations of benefits.

    At their Mom’s house, they change light bulbs, program her cell phone, and write up a cheat sheet since she won’t remember how to use it.

    They bring tins of homemade cookies, flowering plants, and companionable conversation.

    After agreeing to be power of attorney, they spend countless hours balancing statements and paying bills.

    As they sit at her bedside and spoon applesauce in their mother’s waiting mouth, they try not to dwell on the role reversal, because it just makes them sad.

    They don’t talk much about the losses—they just shrug their broad responsible shoulders and go back to the office or go home. They don’t think their efforts are anything special–it’s just what they’re supposed to do.

  • God Bless Middle-aged Daughters

    As I walk into the skilled nursing center where Mom is rehabilitating, I see other women like myself and think, “God bless middle-aged daughters.”

    We’re the sensible, competent women who make it all happen.

    On the street, we often go unnoticed, although we’re attractive. We dress well, but in age-appropriate clothes. No six-inch heels or short skirts. We may carry 10 to 20 extra pounds, but we’re fit, trim, and solid enough to carry the weight of the world.

    On our lunch hour, after work, or during weekend visits, we go see our failing mothers and fathers. We bring them flowering plants small enough to fit on a bedside table/hard candy/clean sox/good cheer.

    We comb their hair and smooth hand cream on their veiny hands and swollen feet. Once they could manage a demanding job or their family’s busy schedule, keep track of birthdays, recipes and grocery lists, but now they can’t remember what you told them five minutes ago, so we answer the same questions again and again. The times they emerge from the twilight, smile and say, “Oh honey, I wish you could always be here,” are heartbreaking treasure.

    As we go back to the office, drive home, or head to the airport, we sigh at the slippage and blink back tears at the losses. Then we put on our game face because somebody else needs us. We keep moving—plan the marketing campaign, schedule the meeting, throw in a load of wash, or make a decent dinner.

    We are careworn. Our lives are not glamorous (and never were—we didn’t aspire to that). We don’t expect much. We can be made happy with so little—a compliment when we don’t feel sexy or a hug from a kid who often seems oblivious.

    Photo credit: Bokal @ Vecteezy.com
    Photo credit: Bokal @ Vecteezy.com

    Sometimes we need to push back our realities for a little while, so we laugh ourselves silly over a stupid joke when we’re out with our girlfriends or sink into the sofa and pour a second glass of good wine.